


wanders lost and wounded

by VesperRegina



Category: Galileo (TV Japan)
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7064428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperRegina/pseuds/VesperRegina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She always sacrificed too much.  You know that, right?  But she was happy.  You had that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wanders lost and wounded

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Hymn for the Missing" by Red. 30 Kisses prompt #15, "perfect blue". Thanks to blue_sappir for her encouraging feedback on this.

A click. It's quiet enough to be heard, the silence that of a hundred students paying close attention. 

"This is _Morpho menelaus_ , a butterfly native to Central America. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

A hum of agreement ripples through the lecture hall, all eyes fixed on the screen. It's expected, but Yukawa still allows himself a tiny moment of being pleased, before moving on.

"How many of you are familiar with the concept of 'perfect blue'? Ah, a good number of you. So, how would you explain that concept? You, in the blue that matches."

The girl, fortunate enough to be wearing the same cerulean shade as the displayed slide on the wall, points to herself. She hesitates, and then blurts, "Illusion, right?"

"That's correct. The other side," click, "shows us an unexceptional brown, coloration that's not an unusual occurrance with such brightly colored examples of natural life. However, and please listen closely, the blue that we see in this butterfly is an illusion as well."

Her heels make almost the same sound as the clicking of the slides, out of tempo. Yukawa only nods as Utsumi enters, and his smile is slight enough that one could question if it was even there. Utsumi goes unnoticed by anyone else, quiet and patient, listening.

"You see, the construction of this butterfly's wings is such that it traps the individual wavelengths of light, leaving us to perceive its color as blue. A morpho is not, in fact, blue."

He turns to the board, ready to indicate a previously drawn graph, waves of colored lines, and the form of Utsumi is caught for a moment in the periphery of his vision before his angle makes her pass out of it. Her smile lingers like an afterimage, eyes bright and observant. 

* * *

This garden was his mother's, but then they moved. She left the cultivated beauty that she'd spent years refining behind, only taking one precious plant with her. They dug it out of the ground, leaving a gaping wound in the earth.

She made her garden anew around that gardenia, and it had consumed what little time she had left. It was never his garden, but it had been the heart of his mother, second only to him.

It was never his garden, but the vivid placement of it in his memory has made it his, has crept into the recurring landscape of his subconscious, like the sunlight in it, the pale yellow butterflies that flit, too quick to be caught by hand.

Utsumi never had a chance to see it, but that matters not one bit to dream logic. She sits beside him, the silk of her blue dress radiating her heat against his side, and she says, "You should go home, Professor."

The words vibrate through him like the shock from a licked battery, the awakening rude. Kuribayashi expects an answer to his concern, and it would be rude to ignore.

"No," Yukawa refuses, though the buzzing hum of little rest is fizzing through his blood, full of lethargy and inability to focus. "I'm awake."

That's not the right answer for Kuribayashi, who turns his back, a rebellious jut to his chin as he goes. Yukawa rubs the sleep away, along with the fading sound of Utsumi's voice.

* * *

"Ew," Kishitani says and wrinkles up her nose. She lets go of the door to the gym, almost catching the side of Kuribayashi's arm as it swings closed. "The smell certainly hasn't changed."

"You have no respect even for the place you attended. I don't know why I expected something different," Kuribayashi responds, voice resigned.

"Quiet, little man, or I'll tell Professor Yukawa you're being mean to me." She smiles, confident that it will earn her the oh-so-satisfying backlash of Kuribayashi's frustration, but it doesn't come. He just frowns, somber.

"That's the problem. I don't think... he's not..."

She tips her head and narrows her eyes. "Spit it out, already." He doesn't; he looks down, and then back up, like a submissive puppy. "Wait," she says, "is that why we're here?"

"Just come."

The squash courts are practically empty, but even so, Kuribayashi signals for quiet, even though it's not likely that whoever is playing will hear them, over the rhythmic quick slap and reverb of a small hollow ball hitting wall and racket, muffled in the cages, but still oddly loud.

Kishitani acquires a crease of suspicion between her eyebrows long before she sees the back of Yukawa, in a sleeveless shirt and track pants, playing by himself in the court.

Kuribayashi pulls on her sleeve and Misa turns to snap a cease-and-desist at him, which she curtails at the look of intense worry cutting lines into Kuribayashi's face. He lifts his finger again to his mouth, then motions down. He sits on the end of a bleacher, out of sight from Yukawa's court, but still offering a view inside, and pulls again on her sleeve. She sits.

"Watch," he says, softly.

Yukawa is intent on the task of catching rebounds, and at first, Kishitani notes nothing but simple practice.

"I don't--"

"Every night for the past week," Kuribayashi interrupts, "for more than an hour each time." He's leaned in close and Misa draws back.

"Really?"

"He hasn't noticed us either."

She looks this time, really looks, and starts to note that Yukawa is missing the ball more often than not, that he's rolling his shoulders back as though trying to relieve muscle ache, that he's struggling to catch breath, panting.

"Do you see?" Kuribayashi asks.

The ball rebounds much too high for Yukawa to catch it and he overextends, overbalances, and falls forward. Beside Misa, she can feel the little jerk forward of motion that Kuribayashi makes, but he catches himself.

She turns to him, almost hissing, "Why aren't you making him stop?"

"I can't. It helps--" He shrugs, looks away.

Misa fills it in, her voice soft, "Helps him forget."

Yukawa has bent forward on the floor, his hand on the racket handle, supporting him like a cane, like he intends to get up again, but his head hangs down, shoulders moving up and down with the force of breath in and out. The racket slips, and clatters, making both Misa and Kuribayashi startle, but when Yukawa draws up his legs and his head falls back against the wall, Misa plucks at Kuribayashi's collar, then pushes him to move.

She follows him out, crouching low, but not before she sees Yukawa cover his face with his hand.

"You're a coward," Misa snaps at Kuribayashi, once outside in still night air.

"I'm not!"

"Yes, you are." She stares him into dropping his gaze, the mulish set to his mouth giving way to a wobbling chin.

"Don't you dare make me cry. God, you're just going to let him kill himself that way, aren't you?"

She sniffs and swallows, the taste of it salty, and she pinches her mouth, and reaches into her purse. "I should just call Kusanagi. He listens to him."

Kuribayashi says, "No, I can talk to him, I promise."

"You go back in there and make him go home."

"He'll just come back tomorrow!" he protests, voice cracking upward. "Why don't you do it?"

Misa draws a quick breath.

"Ah, you're a coward too."

Misa bites the inside of her lip, and drops her phone back in, pulling a longer breath, before she turns to look at the building.

"You knew her longer than I did; what would she do?"

"I don't know."

"But you've also known him longer. And this isn't normal and you asked me to witness it so now it's our problem. You have to try first."

"Fine."

"I will call him if neither of us succeed."

"You don't have to say it like a threat."

She pushes his arm. "Go drag him out, now. I'm sure you can think of an excuse why you're still here. Put on a happy face and get him out of his head. I'm going home."

She turns and walks away, but only travels a few steps before she closes her eyes for a brief moment, face crumpling. "Oh, Professor," she says, aware that the pity does more for her own comfort than anything else, then hurries on.

* * *

"Do you remember the lecture you gave once? It was about a butterfly and colors?" 

As she speaks, he conjures it into the garden, a blue morpho, delicate, foreign, but anything is possible here, except for touch. There is no way he can make it any more real than this. She is no more tangible than anything he can observe here.

"That's right," she says, and holds out her hand. The butterfly hovers above it. "You said that it was an illusion, this color."

"He looks so pale. We talked about this and you've done nothing. You don't get it, do you? He's deluding himself and you're just feeding into that." From outside the door to the lab comes the hushed voice of Kishitani, serious in her conversation, mostly likely with Kuribayashi; with whom else would she use the tone she's wielding, that sharp antagonistic worry? Utsu -- Utsumi would be proud of her.

"Don't you care for him at all? When's the last time he slept -- at home, not there at his desk? Fed himself? You're the one that sees him everyday! What's wrong with you!"

Kuribayashi's mumbling answer is too low for Yukawa to hear, but the ringing silence after it is conversive enough.

"Yes, well. If he listened to me he'd be at home. He doesn't like hearing what I have to say. I wish -- it has to come from you." Misa's voice drops away, vigor gone. "It has to come from you."

Kuribayashi tries to be quiet, making his way back into the lab, treading down the stairs. Yukawa isn't feigning sleep; he's just too exhausted -- so he tells himself -- to make the effort of acknowledging Kuribayashi's presence.

"Professor, are you awake?" he asks, and the quiet temerity in his voice stings. When he receives no answer, he backs away, settles into the seat in front of his own computer, chair creaking.

He won't be able to see the moment Yukawa opens his eyes, but doesn't move.

Underneath his hand is the edge of an illustration, a crude outline of a butterfly, doodled under the influence of exhaustion. The color of illusion is blue. Blue observed only through a trick of perception, diffracted light splitting in just the perfect manner to lie.

That's almost poetic, she would say.

A fact, he would say. Blue isn't the only color exceptional in being subjective.

* * *

"You aren't really one for drinking alone." Kusanagi straddles the stool and leans forward, elbows on the desk, and hands clasped in front of his mouth.

"I don't know under what qualifications this counts as alone." Yukawa pushes the bottle to Kusanagi, and watches the expression on the face of his long time thorn in his side change, a mobile exercise of eyebrows and mouth, all with a wounded chagrin. Kusanagi shrugs, lifts himself again, and searches out a cup to drink from.

Yukawa watches him choose; takes the opportunity of Kusanagi's silence to go on. "So you're the ambassador to me tonight; come to make sure I don't drown myself in this."

"That's really your choice, isn't it? It's past midnight, you know. You should get out of here; go home and get some sleep." 

"I've never needed much sleep."

Kusanagi doesn't seem satisfied with the vessel he's chosen. He stares down into it, shakes his head and then turns on the tap, and runs water into it; it rings momentarily -- a shrill, annoying sound. "Liar. You can't fight against that you know. Too many of your friends have got your number. Kishitani is--"

"A snitch." Kusanagi halts his motions and spears him with a steady look. Maybe that was a bit much. It is too easy, still, to call up past resentment. Yukawa puts his fingers under his glasses, rubs his eyes. 

Kusanagi corrects him with no rancor in his own voice, which stabs like a judgment all on its own. "Worried," he says. "It's difficult for you, we can see that, and you have your reasons for wallowing, but it's not like you." 

He sets the cup down on the desk, with a thump. He pulls back the stool, which wobbles off its feet and then is righted with a dull clang, before he occupies it again. 

"All right. If your only intent in being here is to chastise me like a nagging wife, the least you could do is to push that bottle back to me, or leave."

"Funny that you mention a wife." The pointed look is cautiously bland and thoroughly caustic.

"Stop."

"Does your bed get cold at night now? Is that why you're here?"

"You call yourself my friend."

Kusanagi's answering silence is an attack in itself, calculated to make an agonizing statement. Yukawa lets it dig in, the pain of it deserved. When Kusanagi sighs, it could be a victory, but it's not worth whatever he thought it would be, no satisfaction to be found.

"Yes. I do. And you go ahead and drown yourself in your work or this bottle or in pretending you don't miss Utsumi like the rest of us, like you're so very good at -- I remember what you were like after Ishigami, and she pulled you out of that, somehow. I don't have her touch; I never did."

"It's a little too late to resent me over that."

"Yes, well -- it's a little too late for me to feel guilty about it, too." Kusanagi clenches his hand around the silver mug he'd chosen, looking down. "You had nothing to do with what happened and neither did I. She always sacrificed too much. You know that, right? But she was happy. You had that."

"I really don't need you to remind me of it."

"You never needed the approval, you mean."

"No, I didn't."

Kusanagi raises his eyebrows, a wince twitching across his face. He looks away, at his cup. He clenches his jaw, and pushes away, the stool scraping against the floor tiles. "Right," he says. "I walked into that one. Good night, Yukawa."

It's just a moment's work to let him go, to watch him walk out, a heartbeat of decision. A blink. Another blink, and he's calling him back.

"You're right. I should go home. Go sleep. But--"

"But what?" Kusanagi raises his eyebrows and shifts his stance to one foot, the entire line of his body speaking of seeking reasons to keep listening, or perhaps, proof in himself that it's worth the chance.

"The place is empty." He would explain more, but he can't say the words, and there is no doubt that Kusanagi won't be able to pick them out of his head, or grasp the fleeting impressions connected with them -- the memory of presence, of fragrance, of the lack of the weight of a lived-in place, or the unbidden flash of a gaping hole in the ground, once occupied with roots, strewn with the accidental ruin of glossy green leaves and white petals crushed and yellowing.

"You're drunk," Kusanagi states, after a long moment of just looking at him. 

"I wish I was. It would be easier. Fine. Take me home."

Kusanagi doesn't smile so much as grimace, close-lipped. He turns his head away as he says, "Sure you don't want to sit here and rot?"

"It doesn't matter where I do that."

Kusanagi doesn't say anything to that, just hangs his head and touches his fingers to his forehead, before turning, and gesturing at Yukawa to follow.

* * *

The malaise makes itself known long before he's truly awake: the vague reluctance to move or to even open his eyes. The sound that woke him is rain, pattering hard, but had sounded like something else, even though it is nothing like.

She'd had a habit of waking him, sitting cross-legged in her work suits, brushing out her hair with no-nonsense strokes, the sound rhythmic. It popped as she drew the brush down, the gathering of sound crackling when she pulled the brush out of the strand.

On mornings he could sleep in he'd pretend that he was as she moved around in their shared space, his eyes closed, tuned in with partial attention. "I'm off to work," she would say and he'd only hum at her in answer.

"Aren't you concerned about hair on your clothes," he'd asked one time. "Not particularly," she'd answered.

Another time, he'd said, "It's a soothing sound." She'd paused for a moment, then gathered it back deftly before saying, "Why do you think I sit here?"

The last time, though it was not the last time then, just one of the many times before, he'd taken the brush from her hand, and run it through her hair himself. She'd bowed her head, said, "You're going to make me late."

"Not any later than I will be." 

* * *

"Your mother's garden is beautiful."

"It's gone now."

"No, it isn't, not really."

Under her feet, the grass does not bend, no impressions left of the presence of her. Still, she exists, for this fleeting lightning of remembrance. She caresses his hand as she rises, leaves him on this bench to move away, her smile a teasing answer to the hunger he can't hide, the desire of the warmth only her presence can provide. 

In her hands, the gardenia yields its blossom easily, and she stands, holding it cupped, lost in contemplation of it. It is familiar, a memory repeated.

"This was her favorite," she says, and lays it in his lap, gathers his hands to form a cage around it. She doesn't wait for his answer, or permission, but moves, the silk of her dress sliding smooth with her kneeling, hands on his knees.

"You're smart enough to know this will end. I'm nothing but an illusion, a memory of someone you once loved."

She lifts herself up, bending over him, and she is the fragrance of spring, rain, her hands petals against the skin of his face. "Isn't that so, Yukawa?"

"I didn't just love you."

She smiles. "No, you didn't, did you?" The softness of her mouth against his is the kiss of a breeze.

He keeps his eyes closed. His head aches, the blotter under his cheek is warm, and his lips move without sound, but the words are heavy in his head: _I adored you_.


End file.
